


Outbreak

by Elderberry



Series: The Doctor's Doctor [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: BAMF Knock Out, Bonding, Bumblebee and Smokescreen are precious puppies who just want to help, But also not, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Illnesses, Knock Out is amused, Ratchet is Ratchet, Slight graphic depiction of illness, Team Bonding, Team Player Knock Out, Team as Family, but then he's not, medical drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 06:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16057178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elderberry/pseuds/Elderberry
Summary: When a nasty virus spreads through the Autobot ranks, team Prime discovers that Knock Out is in fact, a team player, but Ratchet is very much not.





	Outbreak

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this monster in two days, it wouldn't let me work on anything else until it was finished. Also, an attempt at humor and bonding I'm not certain I pulled off.  
> Oh well!

It starts with Bumblebee.

The young mech sits on a med berth, rubbing at his chest as he tries to explain to Ratchet what’s wrong.

Every so often, as he describes the rattling in his vents to the old medic, his vocalizer spits static.

Knock Out stands on the other side of the room, arms folded across his chest as he listens to the exchange going on between the two. He pretends he’s not listening, of course, and rakes his gaze around the chaos his once perfectly ordered med bay has fallen into.

There are parts littering every surface, tools piled haphazardly here and there with no particular order, cabinet doors stand open, missing the meticulously organized supplies he had once so painstakingly kept and maintained.

The source of the chaos grumbles and Knock Out glances in his direction as the old medic begins to shuffle about, watching as Ratchet frowns and plugs one of his diagnostic cables into the arm Bumblebee is offering him.

The two are still for long moments but Knock Out can see from where he is standing the pinched expression taking over the old doctor’s face. The creases around his optics, already drawn in exhaustion, deepen as whatever data being fed across the connection becomes clear.

Finally, Ratchet stands, and begins removing the cable from ‘Bee’s arm.

For his part, Bumblebee says nothing, but looks increasingly nervous at Ratchet’s continued silence. He clears his vocalizer with another rasp of static and looks up at the medic.

“Well?”

Ratchet regards him with a look Knock Out has seen before, one steeped in thinly veiled exasperation, and finally sighs.

“Virus.” He mutters, face grim as he begins coiling the cables back up and closing them behind the panel in his arm with a snap. “Nothing I can do, needs to run its course. If it gets any worse, I can give you something to ease the symptoms, but other than that you’re just going to have to be miserable for a little while.”

“Oh.”

The scout looks crestfallen and Knock Out resists the urge to snort at the pitiful look on his face.

“How, uh, how long until it does that?”

Ratchet lets out another resigned sounding sigh and levels ‘Bee with another look, this one a bit softer.

“I can’t be entirely certain, kid. These things vary from bot to bot, but it shouldn’t be more than a week or two.”

The news does nothing to lighten the look on Bumblebee’s face, even as he gets up off the berth and leaves the med bay, Ratchet’s instructions to take it easy and consume extra fuel hanging in the air.

When Bumblebee is gone, Ratchet stamps his way back across the room, ignoring Knock Out as he passes. He goes back to what he was doing before, rummaging through an open drawer and pulling out random bits and pieces that he drops into a nonsensical pile on the desk beside him.

Knock Out feels an optic twitch so hard he’s momentarily afraid of short circuiting the motor relay. He wants to say something, _really_ wants to say something, but bites his glossa instead. He’s trying to be good, trying to be a team player or whatever, but the continuously degrading state of his med bay is making that very hard.

So rather than snap at the other medic, as he oh so very much wants to, he simply leaves, making his way to the one, untouched corner he can still call his own.

* * *

It doesn’t end with Bumblebee.

Less than half a solar cycle later Bulkhead clambers through the med bay doors. Knock Out can hear the desperate whine of his vents even before he’s fully crossed the threshold, and behind him, a small army of vehicons are stumbling listlessly over one another’s pedes.

Ratchet takes one look at them and curses, shooting an arm out to point at a row of med berths.

From then on, the cycles pass by in a flurry.

Knock Out watches from his corner, field full of barely restrained amusement, as Ratchet barks orders and scurries from berth to berth.

The virus seems to be affecting Bulkhead and a few of the vehicons more profoundly then Bumblebee, and at one point the large, green wrecker leans over the berth and purges all over Ratchet’s feet.

The old medic says nothing, face stoic as he snaps at a cleaning drone to get over there and do its job.

Knock Out thinks about offering his help but squashes the thought immediately. Ratchet had made it quite clear during their first few solar cycles together _exactly_ what he thought of Knock Out and his ‘supposed’ skill as a medic.

He had also made it quite clear that Knock Out’s only purpose now was to log data and nothing more.

So, he sits in his corner and watches as a new kind of pandemonium overtakes the med bay, and Ratchet, clearly run off his feet, barks and hisses at the few vehicons still standing to bring him tools and supplies they have little comprehension of.

It makes for great entertainment at least, and the frustration that screws up the medic’s face when presented with the wrong tool is really just icing on the energon cake.

* * *

When they bring in Ultra Magnus two days later, Knock Out almost feels inclined to intervene and offer his assistance.

The massive mech is half stumbling, half being supported by a struggling Smokescreen, as Ratchet curses and stomps his way over to the last two remaining berths and shoves them together.

It takes Smokescreen and the medic quite a bit of effort to get Magnus onto the improvised slab. He spends the entire time complaining about ‘priority’ and ‘lack of time’ in a slurred, staticky voice as the two finally manage to hoist him up.

Even from where he sits, Knock Out’s internal medical scanner can pick up the elevated temperature of Magnus’ frame. It’s spitting redlined sensory data at him, and every internal alarm linked to his medic coding is going off and driving him to _‘help, help, help.’_

He ignores it and slams the coding back down with barely an outward twitch of his hand to show how discomforting it is. The slagging coding inside of his processor has no idea that he’s been regulated to a data jockey, and it drives him to do, well, _something_.

He won’t, of course. Not with Ratchet stamping around the med bay like a one mech hospital, simultaneously spreading cooling tarps over Ultra Magnus and bitching out a now bent double, coughing Smokescreen.

Instead Knock Out simply continues to watch.

* * *

It gets worse before it gets better.

At times Ultra Magnus’ temperature spikes so high the monitoring system he’s jacked into squeals in panic. His vents are clogged by an oil-based sludge, a nasty side affect of the virus running through his system.

Time after time Ratchet stands at his side, his entire arm plunged deep into the offending vent – scraping out bucket after bucket of the viscous substance. Bulkhead fares little better, but he’s capable at least of sitting up on his own so he can hack and cough his own oily phlegm up into the waste bin in his lap.

Every berth in the med bay is occupied. Those who are worst off, requiring medical supervision, fill up their spaces.

The others, still sick but not in immediate threat of developing complications, are all bundled together in the nemesis’ rec room.

Knock Out now spends little time in the med bay. He frequents the rec room instead, passing out cubes of hot energon and offering up cooling tarps and advice on how best to bring up the phlegm rattling around in their chest cavities.

The Autobots are wary of him at first, but when he flips a wheezing Smokescreen over his knee and pounds on his back until the sludge loosens and comes up, they seem to soften towards him somewhat.

When he does return to the med bay, it’s to gather more cooling tarps and additives for the energon. Ratchet doesn’t so much as glance in his direction once, but Knock Out always takes a second to study the old doctor.

He’s beginning to look more than a little run down, in Knock Out’s professional opinion. The lines on his face have deepened considerably, dark gray circles tinging the paint beneath his optics. He moves slower, stiffer than he had even the other day, and Knock Out finds himself wondering if the old coot has recharged at all since the outbreak. _Not likely_ , he thinks with a sigh, and before judgement can get the best of him he makes his way over to the med bays’ energon dispenser.

The cube fills quickly, and he tears open a packet of additives that he dumps in with little grace. Ratchet’s not likely to take the energon from him, but he is very likely to be face down on the med bay floor if he doesn’t at least get some fuel into him soon.

Cube in hand Knock Out makes his way over toward the old medic, who turns to fix him with a glare as he nears.

“What?”

Knock Out finds himself gritting his denta as the acerbic tone of Ratchet’s voice cuts through the air. He says nothing and slams the energon cube down on one of the medical trays littering the place. Ratchet glares again at that, but also says nothing more and returns to whatever tool he’d been tinkering with before Knock Out’s interruption.

Angered, Knock Out doesn’t spare a glance back at the other mech as he marches out of the med bay.

* * *

“Knock Out?”

Knock Out looks up from his data pad at the sound of his name. Bumblebee is standing before him, wringing his hands together nervously, optics cast toward the floor.

He’s sitting in one of the few unoccupied chairs left in the rec room, every other piece of furniture over taken by ill, recharging bots. The data pad he’s holding is an automatically updated report on the state of the nemesis’ engine, and by extension, energon reserves.

With Ultra Magnus and just about everybody else down for the count – not to mention his resolve to not return to the med bay until the entire thing has blown over – looking over reports was just about the only thing he could do to occupy his time. It wouldn’t do to have something major happen, only for there to be no one paying enough attention to respond.

And speaking of responding, Bumblebee is still standing before him, twisting his fingers together in a way that makes Knock Out cringe.

“What is it Bumblebee?”

The scout scuffs a foot against the floor, but finally lifts his head to look at Knock Out.

“I’m worried about Ratchet.” He says finally and digs the tip of one finger into the seam of his thumb.

Knock Out feels a sigh building, and he slides over on the chair and pats the spot next to him in invitation.

Bumblebee’s optics widen, and he glances about him as though trying to see if anyone else is awake, before slowly moving forward and settling himself next to Knock Out. He fits easily enough on the chair, which is big enough to hold a mech of Megatron’s size, and he lets out a little sigh while continuing to twist at his digits.

The action prompts a shudder to race up Knock Out’s spinal strut, and before he can stop himself he’s reaching out to grasp at Bumblebee’s hands.

“Stop that.”

Bumblebee looks up at him, optics bright in the dim lighting, and offers him a weak smile.

“Sorry. I know it’s a bad habit.”

Knock Out hums in agreement, optics focusing on the hands now wrapped in his own. There are little dents and scratches from where the scout has been picking at his seams and Knock Out feels a frown settle across his face as he scrutinizes the damage.

It’s superficial, mostly, but there are spots towards some of the longer scratches that are deeper, going past the plating and down into the dermal layer. Without much thought, one of his fingers transforms into a micro welder.

‘Bee startles, optics going wide as he stares at Knock Out’s hands. A twinge of confusion flashes through his field, and Knock Out stops, glancing up at the younger bot with a quirk of his brow ridge.

“What? I’m going to seal these before they get infected. Can you trust me, for just a moment?”

“Oh,” ‘Bee stammers after a second. “No, it’s not that, it’s…”

He scrunches his face up, as though trying to find the words to explain away his surprise.

“Ratchet told me once that only forged medics have real medic hands, the kind that, uh, turn into tools and stuff.”

Knock Out feels a pulse of anger flare through him, but he pushes it down quickly before it has time to work its way into his field. He levels a considering stare at ‘Bee instead, but finds no malice on the others face, just surprise and simple confusion.

“Ratchet is not wrong.” He says after a moment. “Only forged medics come equipped with the kind of micro tools and sensors needed for proper repairs and surgery. The equipment is to complex to be fabricated, and the way it integrates into the neural net to difficult to replicate on those who are cold constructed.”

“Oh,” the scouts face has taken on a bewildered look, as though the information he now possesses has changed something. “So… you’re not, you know?”

“No!”

Something suddenly clicks into place, and with a sinking sense of horror Knock Out shudders his optics.

“What… what made you think I _wasn’t_ a forged medic?”

Bumblebee shrugs, face flushing blue in embarrassment.

“It wasn’t any one thing… just things I’ve heard Ratchet say from time to time. About you being, you know, a hack.”

He says the last word softly, as though it will lessen the offence.

This time Knock Out cannot keep the anger from bleeding into his field. It’s an old, familiar anger that has been simmering in the depths of his spark from the first moment that very assumption had been made of him. Eons ago now, but still fresh enough to boil the energon in his lines.

Bumblebee flinches back as the anger whips through him, but he doesn’t pull back his hands, still clutched firmly in Knock Out’s own.

Knock Out forces himself to calm down, to vent deeply and evenly, and shove the rage back down. It takes a long moment, but when he feels the anger ebb, he looks back up to Bumblebee.

“I can admit to not having the best… reputation. But I was sparked with the coding to be a medic, with the hands to be one.”

Bumblebee nods, and inches closer to Knock Out once more.

“I can see that now,” he says, shifting his hands in Knock Out’s own. “I’m sorry for assuming, but, you really don’t look like a medic, at least, not any that I’ve ever seen.”

At this, Knock Out feels a wry smile tug at his lips. His frame has always been a point of contention amongst his kind. The body of a racer, but the hands and spark of a medic. The contradiction has always been enough to confound those he encounters, and is he knows, a large part of the reason everyone believes him to be a fake.

A racer pretending to be a medic, instead of a medic pretending to be a racer.

“I’ve never been a fan of medic frames, at least not for myself.”

He doesn’t want to go any further into it. Doesn’t want to continue to pick at old scars that have barely started to heal. So, he unclenches his hands instead, presses at Bumblebee’s until they open, laying flat against one of his own.

He engages the micro welder after a moment, it powers to life with a soft hum that settles into the empty space around them. It soothes the coding in his processor, unfurls the tight ball of command prompts he’s been ignoring for to long, and finally, Knock Out feels something relax deep inside of him.

Bumblebee says nothing more but watches with rapt curiosity as Knock Out seals the tiny scratches that snake across his palm and coil around his fingers. He’s careful, gentle even, as he smooths out the ragged edges until nothing is left but small, silver streaks.

He’s nearly finished when Bumblebee speaks again. His tone is low, as though he is afraid of breaking the bubble of peace that surrounds them.

“I wish Ratchet would let you help him.”

Knock Out snorts at that and traces the welder down the last scratch before transforming it back with a click. He mulls his response over while opening his subspace to pull out a tube of sealant, which he begins to apply carefully to the fresh welds.

“Does he ever let any of you help him?”

Bumblebee blinks and shakes his helm, his hands twitch in Knock Out’s own, fingers curling and uncurling as though he wants to start twisting them again but is barely refraining.

“No. No, he never has. We’ve offered, but he usually just chases us away.”

His tone sounds defeated, like Ratchet’s inability to take help is a fault of Bumblebee’s own. Knock Out heaves another internal sigh and shakes his helm, resignation bleeding through his field.

“Well, then he’s certainly not going to accept help from me. He’s already made that quite clear.”

Bumblebee shifts again, frowning. It’s a look so out of place on his usually cheerful face that Knock Out feels something twist deep inside, urging him to make it better.

“I can try again,” he finds himself saying, despite knowing the outcome. “But I can’t make any guarantees.”

The scout perks up again at that and smiles, an undeserved bit of trust swimming in his optics. The strange feeling in Knock Out’s chest tightens, but he finds himself smiling back.

* * *

Despite his resolve to not return to the med bay until the madness had blown over, Knock Out finds himself doing just that.

His promise to Bumblebee weighs heavily on his processor, and while he knows the likelihood of being able to fulfill it is low, he must at least try. It’s been nearly two solar cycles since he had stormed out of there, and when he pauses in the doorway to look around, his tank drops to the floor.

The med bay is… in a state of absolute horror.

The disorder from before seems to have tripled, every surface now spewing over with parts and tools and data pads.

Cooling tarps lay in crumpled heaps just about everywhere, buckets of sludge, filled to the brim and nearly spilling over, are shoved into corners.

Knock Out finds he must take a deep vent before going forward. His spark hammers in his chassis, and if he weren’t a medic himself, he’d have sworn he was on the verge of a spark-attack.

Ratchet is no where to be found, and the fact disturbs him greatly.

Both Ultra Magnus and Bulkhead are still on their berths, in a virus induced recharge, vents rattling and sputtering angrily. The vehicons are in a similar state, though a few of them seem to be awake, unfocused optics turning to look at him.

He makes his way to the closest one that’s conscious, grinding his denta together when he notices the empty coolant drip hanging above the berth. He wants to replace it before questioning the vehicon but finds he can’t for the life of him locate any spares. He can’t locate _anything_ amidst the chaos surrounding him.

Frustrated, he rounds on the mech with a barely contained snarl.

“Where is _Ratchet?_ ”

The vehicon blinks his hazy optics, straining to focus on Knock Out’s face.

“Uh, who?”

“The _medic_!” He roars, struggling to hold back the white-hot rage seeping into his frame.

“Oh.” The vehicon gets out after a moment, scrubbing at his face with a shaking hand. “He uh, went into the office a while ago, muttering something about steroids?”

Knock Out turns with a fury so great he’s nearly shaking with it and stomps his way to the office door on the other side of the med bay. He yanks the door open so hard it squeals on its hinges, but the sound doesn’t register past the hammering of his spark in his audios.

He’s ready to take one look at Ratchet and start screaming, primus damn his attempts at playing nice, when the sight in the office stops him dead in his tracks.

Ratchet is there alright, but all it takes is one look at him for Knock Out to see that anything he says will fall on deaf audios.

Ratchet is barely conscious.

Slumped forward across the desk, vents sputtering in a vein attempt to pull in air.

Knock Out’s internal scanner tabulates the temperature of his frame, and he winces when the readout comes back.

Hot. Much, much to hot.

“You pit forged glitch.” He mutters, stalking the few feet across the room to be at Ratchet’s side. He places one hand down carefully on the medic’s shoulder plating and winces when he lets out a low groan. As he takes a closer look at the mech before him he spots an open case sitting on the desk.

He knows immediately what it contains and feels his spark clench tight as realization dawns on him.

The case contains his personal stash of circuit boosters, locked away in the office as a preventive measure to keep sticky fingered Decepticon’s from snatching them and chasing an over-charge high.

A useful medical tool in dire circumstances, great for rebooting failing systems and forcing energy through a struggling frame. But also, an often-abused drug, with the nasty tendency to fry neuro-circuits.

He doubts greatly Ratchet is an abuser, and the heat and shuddering of his vents is a clear indication of a virus running through his system, not a dangerous over-charge of boosters.

What he doesn’t doubt however, is the stubborn doctor slipping himself a low dose, just enough to keep him going as his own systems struggled with the same illness as everyone else.

“Slagger.” He grumbles again and reaches up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

This has gone on long enough.

* * *

Ratchet is much to heavy for Knock Out to move on his own, so he comms Bumblebee and Smokescreen to come and aide him.

Out of everyone infected, they seem to be faring the best, and they show up a few minutes later, radiating nervous energy.

Bumblebee takes one look at Ratchet and his face falls, he starts wringing at his hands again and Knock Out shoots him a look, they drop to his sides and he casts a sheepish smile in Knock Out’s direction, a mumbled ‘sorry’ falling from his lips.

It’s an issue Knock Out’s going to have to deal with later, a phycological reaction to stress that he’ll have to curb when things have finally calmed down and he has time to think again. For now, though, he needs to get Ratchet’s heavy aft up on a med berth, so he can get him stabilized.

It takes the three of them a bit of finagling to heft Ratchet’s considerable bulk, but they manage, albeit awkwardly, to maneuver him out of the office and across the med bay.

There are a few spare berths now, cleared of vehicons who had recovered enough to be sent on their way, and between the three of them they manage to struggle enough to get Ratchet hoisted up onto one.

Smokescreen pulls away as soon as they’re finished, letting out a few wet, barking coughs while Bumblebee pounds on his back.

Knock Out sighs and makes a mental note to find, somewhere in this mess, a bit of leniumn to administer to him later, to thin out the oily phlegm.

The two bots stick around as Knock Out works, hooking Ratchet up to a monitor and covering his frame in cooling tarps. He needs to start a coolant drip to aide the process, but remembers at the last second, he has no idea where Ratchet is stashing them all.

So, he sends Bumblebee and Smokescreen, still eager to help and waiting with wide optics like turbo-puppies, on a quest to find a list of things he scrawls out on a data pad.

Coolant is one of the more pressing things, along with medical-grade energon, and if they find nothing else but that, Knock Out would be happy. In the mean time he casts a scowl at Ratchet and picks up a scraper, settling himself down onto a wheeled stool beside the prone mech.

It takes a bit of effort to pry open Ratchet’s vents, and he has to hold back a cringe when the black sludge starts oozing out of its own accord. It’s filling his chest cavity, seeping down into his vents and blocking the flow of air from cooling his frame. Unconscious as the mech is, Knock Out has little choice but to manually begin the process of clearing it out himself.

If he could find the leniumn and start an energon infused drip, along with the coolant, this process would go much smoother. He hopes Bumblebee and Smokescreen have at least some success in finding the things he needs but based on the noise they’re making as they sift through the endless piles, he has little faith in that outcome.

It takes nearly an hour for Knock Out to clear enough of the sludge for Ratchet’s venting to come out a little less laboured, his temperature is dropping slowly, but enough Knock Out feels comfortable getting up to leave him for a bit.

He needs to check on the progress of his two unofficial assistants.

They’ve cleared off one of the medical trays, and spread out on top, in at least some semblance of order, are a surprising number of the things he’s asked for. Including a vial of undiluted leniumn.

Now, if he could just find that coolant.

From across the room Smokescreen let’s out a triumphant sound, it tapers off into a cough that has him pounding on his own chest, but he scurries over to Knock Out the second it passes.

“Guess what docbot!” He’s beaming at Knock Out so hard it’s like he’s just discovered the cure for cybercroisis, but given the circumstances, he might as well have.

“I found the coolant, oh, and the med-grade to!”

His excitement is nothing if not infectious and Knock Out finds he can’t quite keep a smile from twitching at his lips.

“Good. Very Good Smokescreen, can you and ‘Bee bring over as much as you can carry?”

He’s gone again in an instant, bounding away with Bumblebee in tow.

They return quickly, arms full of IV bags and a satisfied look spread across their face plates. They’re certainly more competent then the vehicons when it comes to recognizing medical supplies, and Knock Out finds Ratchet to be foolish, rejecting their help for all these years.

He makes quick work of setting up the IV’s, and using a clean syringe, another miraculous discovery amongst the chaos, injects a carefully measured dose of the leniumn into the one dripping medical grade energon.

There. Crisis averted, somewhat.

* * *

For the remainder of the day Knock Out flits between checking on Ratchet and administering to the rest of the patients filling the med bay. He changes coolant drips and soiled tarps, injects leniumn into the med-grade of those struggling the worst with the sludge clogging their vents, and keeps a careful, detailed report on a commandeered data pad should Ratchet wake up and start chewing him out.

It’s… undeniably satisfying.

The medical coding in his processor hums its content with each act, and if it weren’t for the fact that his med bay was still a mess, Knock Out would be just about as happy as possible, given the circumstance.

But even the mess is becoming less of a concern with Bumblebee and Smokescreen darting about, collecting soiled tarps and hauling away the buckets of sludge to the incinerator.

It’s progress, no matter how small, and even finding his one remaining cleaning drone glitching under a table, an obvious foot print decorating its side, can’t take away the feeling.

And he thinks, wryly to himself, that when Magnus is more functional in a few days, it’s high time they start talking about building another med-center, as far away from his own as possible.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a head-canon that Ratchet is a very... disorderly person, and that Knock Out is a bit of a perfectionist, especially when it comes to things he thinks are his.


End file.
